


Take Off Your Shirt

by nana_banana



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beta Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Canon Universe, Demons, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek Hale is Not a Failwolf, Doppelganger, Friendship, Getting Together, Good Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), M/M, NO rape, No Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, One Shot, POV Stiles Stilinski, POV Third Person Limited, Past Tense, Petty Rivalry, Pining, Post-Season 3A, Roofie Magic, Sexual Assault, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is a Nice Thing, Werewolves, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23705332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nana_banana/pseuds/nana_banana
Summary: It was a nice fucking day.  Until it wasn't.  Now Stiles has to deal with Derek taking his shirt off all the time.  Also, demons, but that's life, y'know?
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 20
Kudos: 341





	Take Off Your Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I wanted to write something funny, but instead it turned into this. I spent all of three days on this tbh. I could've worked on it more, but also I have like a trillion other things to work on & this was supposed to be a quick one shot anyway.
> 
>  **Warning:** this work of fiction contains sensitive themes. Read with care. If I missed any tags, I sincerely apologize & would appreciate if you would drop a comment to inform me of any tags that need to be added.

It was a nice day.

A really nice fucking day. 

The sky was partly cloudy, the people of Beacon Hills were friendly and obliging, and, in the preserve, the birds were out and singing en masse. Stiles thought, as he made his way to the old Hale house, that there had never been a day as nice as this. He switched off the radio as he pulled up to the clearing, knowing the staticky noise annoyed Derek. Parking, he jumped out of the Jeep, looking around. 

He did not see anyone. There was no Derek glowering from a window, no Erica wrestling with Jackson, no Lydia reading on the steps, and no Scott glaring right back at Derek from the ground floor. 

It was such a nice day. 

“Guys?” Stiles called around the empty clearing, confusion present. He pulled his phone out of his pocket with the intent of looking up the last text he had received, thinking he had gotten the location wrong. But before he could so much as turn it on, there was a voice. 

“About time,” it said. “Was beginning to wonder if you got lost.” 

It had been such a nice fucking day. 

Startling, Stiles looked up and immediately fumbled his phone. The sound of birds seemed to vanish. The wind through the trees stilled. It was as if every sentient being had vanished into the ether and it was just Derek and him left on earth. 

“Derek?” Stiles squeaked, voice reaching a pitch he had not hit since he was twelve. 

Because coming out of the dilapidated house was Derek Hale. But not the usual grumpy sourwolf Derek Hale that Stiles was used to. This Derek Hale was one Stiles had never seen before. This Derek Hale was shirtless. Not that Stiles had never seen him shirtless before, he had. Usually he saw the process of a be-shirted Derek turning shirtless via his closest friends, blood and violence, usually accompanied by Stiles' buddy, trauma. But this Derek came pre-battle, no dirt, blood or wounds to be seen. And worse, his skin was _glistening._ Shiny and slick like he was doused in baby oil, Derek Hale stood in what seemed to be his tightest pair of jeans, snug and pasted to his thick legs and accentuating the nice “V” of his hips that led down to a noticeable … bulge. 

Stiles, well, he stared. Because really. His brain had frozen. Stiles was merely human, after all, and a bisexual one at that. 

A grin that could — horrifyingly enough — _only_ be called sensual, unfolded across Derek's face. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Derek asked, and he moved, _sauntering_ down the steps. His shiny, leather boots clunked with each step, and the light practically sparkled off his chiseled abs and ripped shoulders. He looked like something out of _Twilight_ , only those abs were _definitely_ real. “Maybe I can find it for you.” 

The look in Derek's green, green eyes was intense, staring straight at Stiles like he could see into his soul. His lips were quirked on one side, giving him quite a smoldering look. 

“The fuck,” Stiles blurted, the words coming out strangled. 

Tossing his head of perfectly tousled hair, Derek's grin widened. 

Stiles needed to abort. Abort, abort, _abort!_

“Where's everyone?” Stiles asked, turning his head, praying for company so as to not be obvious about the way his pants felt just a little bit tighter. It was a proven fact that company made one seem like less of a dumbstruck weirdo — Stiles had his sources, no one needed to fact check him! “You said pack meeting. Where's the _pack?_ Am I early? Are they on the way?” His voice gained a pitch with every question as Derek had not stopped. He continued walking towards Stiles, all suave and glorious, shimmering muscles, and Stiles soon found himself hitting his Jeep, unable to back up any further. He had not even realized he had been moving. And yet, Derek still kept coming, his body moving like a predator stalking prey. “Please say they're on the way,” Stiles practically begged. 

He was totally the prey. 

“It's just us,” Derek said, his smile turning softer at the edges. The woods were silent around them. “Just you and me.” 

“What if it _weren't,_ though,” Stiles suggested, glancing around once again. He jerked as Derek crossed into his personal space, hands coming up to brace on either side of him. He crowded Stiles against the metal. The heat of him was scorching, and Stiles pressed harder against the Jeep, alarmed at the delicious feel of it radiating onto him like a toasty, electric blanket, nearly overpowering. 

“Then that wouldn't be nearly as fun,” Derek said quietly. He moved a hand off the Jeep, letting his fingers trace Stiles' jaw in a minute caress, and Stiles' heart leapt in his chest. “Didn't think you'd be into that.” 

“Why are you acting so weird?” Stiles demanded, half-hysterical as he shoved at Derek's hand. He was shaking, even as his body screamed to be closer to Derek's. “Are you possessed? Did you eat a weird mushroom? What the —” A noise Stiles had not known he could make erupted from his mouth, high and wanton as Derek palmed a handful of his asscheek. “Get your hand off my ass!” Stiles smacked at Derek, shoving him off and taking his chance to squeeze through the open door of the jeep. Slamming it shut, he wasted no time in gunning it and peeling out of the clearing. 

* * *

Head buried into his pillow, Stiles groaned miserably, his heart still racing from the encounter. He had gotten home minutes ago, but he had yet to calm down. Derek's weird actions had left him a conflicted mess, and he did not know what to do. On one hand, there was volcano-hot Derek Hale, giving him sultry smiles and making him feel all kinds of flustered. On the other hand there was grumpy-pants McGee, angst-man extraordinaire, giving him heated glares and … also leaving him all kinds of flustered. 

The second hand, however, usually let Stiles lie to himself about what exactly those flustered feelings were. That first hand, well, Stiles did not have the audacity to look at that first hand in the eye without feeling several kinds of shame for what he wanted to do with that hand. 

So, moaning pathetically into his pillow, Stiles remained where he was and bore the shame that wanted to strangle him. Even the clatter at his window could not pull him from the depths of his disgrace. 

“Stiles?” 

Nearly leaping out of his skin in fright, Stiles flipped over, catching sight of Derek as he climbed in through his window. His heart began to race all over again, body growing hot and eyes wide as Derek stood, raising an eyebrow at him. 

This Derek Hale had a shirt on, tight as it was. It clung to every shape of him, like paint. However, he did not sport any kind of “come hither” look like he had earlier. Stiles relaxed fractionally at that. 

“Derek?” Stiles squeaked. 

“Are you alright?” Derek said, and Stiles sat up, the words odd in his ears. 

“What?” Stiles said. And he noticed that this Derek looked concerned. Tilting his head, Stiles blinked at him. “What?” He repeated. 

“I came to ask if you were alright,” Derek said, his expression earnest. 

“Why?” Stiles laughed. He could not help it. Derek was not the type to be so openly concerned. Even with him. They had come a long way, it was true, but Derek was nowhere near an open book like this. 

“You just ran off,” Derek said, brow furrowing, and Stiles stiffened as he moved closer. He stopped next to the bed, looking down at him with that weird expression. 

“Because you were acting weird,” Stiles said, slowly shifting backwards. He jumped as Derek sighed and reached for the hem of his shirt. 

“Don't worry,” Derek said seriously, “I'll never hurt you. I'm here to protect you.” And off went the shirt. 

Contrary to the Hale House clearing, Derek's skin wasn't shiny and slick. But he was muscular and well-defined, like he had been hitting the gym everyday for a year. Every muscle was toned to perfection. Almost like an ideal version of Derek. He climbed onto the bed, grabbing Stiles around the knee and pulling him close. Stiles' limbs went liquid with heat as Derek fitted himself over him, one hand caressing his knee and meandering up his thigh as the other held him up. 

_Fuck,_ Stiles thought, taking in a sharp breath to clear the want from his head. 

“I'll protect you,” Derek repeated fiercely, looming over him, and Stiles' heart skipped a beat. Taking another breath, he shook himself of the feeling and he squirmed, slipping out of Derek's hold and off the bed with a thump. “Stiles?” 

“Nope!” Stiles said, scrambling to his feet. Derek gave him a confused expression, reaching out once more. But before he could grab for Stiles, Stiles ran. 

* * *

Leaping out of his Jeep, Stiles raced to the door, banging his fist against it. 

“Scott!” He called. “Dude! Open up!” 

He breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the door unlock, dropping his fist and glancing behind him for any sign of Derek. The door opened and Stiles turned, shoulders relaxing at the feeling of safety this place gave him. 

“Stiles.” 

Freezing to the spot, Stiles was met with the smiling face of Derek Hale. Dread filled his stomach and Stiles stared, utterly dumbfounded as Derek stood, looking soft and approachable in the McCall residence. 

“Derek?” He breathed, his heart twinging funnily in his chest. 

Derek was wearing a soft, worn, long-sleeved shirt. His jeans were looser, fitting him more gently. His feet were bare, hair unstyled. This was a more familiar version that Stiles knew. He recognized this one. Unguarded and dressed for himself, not looking to put on an act, this Derek was rarer. He had often crashed Derek's loft just to see it, much to Derek's supposed vexation. 

Supposed, because Stiles had yet to be kicked out for doing it. 

“C'mon,” Derek said with a soft smile, and Stiles found himself nodding. He took Stiles' hand and pulled him inside. Stiles went willingly, following as Derek led him through the McCall House, up the stairs, and into Scott's room. “You feel safe here, right?” Derek questioned kindly. 

Stiles did, was the thing. It was why he had driven over to Scott's in the first place. There was just something about Scott's room that relaxed Stiles. It made him feel like nothing could get to him. So when Derek led him to Scott's bed and sat him down, Stiles did not run. He looked around. The place looked exactly the same as the last time he had been in it. Clothes on the floor, Doritos spilled on the nightstand, bed messily made, and a game controller on the floor. 

It still looked like the room of a teenage boy, though they were turning twenty soon. 

“How're you feeling?” Derek asked, still smiling that soft smile. 

“Weird,” Stiles admitted. This might have been his favorite version of Derek. Approachable and kind, gentle as he rubbed his thumb over Stiles' knuckles. It was a stark change from Grumpy Derek who growled and snarked at him, and often rolled his eyes as soon as Stiles opened his mouth. Not that he did that all too much anymore, but Derek liked putting on a show. “Good weird, maybe,” Stiles said. 

“Comfortable?” Derek asked, using the hand not holding Stiles' to reach up and run his thumb over Stiles' cheek. 

Stiles wanted to melt into the touch. 

“I guess?” Stiles said, but his gut churned and he shifted away from Derek's hand. 

“Shh,” Derek hushed, reaching again. “You're safe.” 

But, oddly enough, the more Derek reassured him, the less Stiles believed it. There was a feeling, a bad one, that vibrated through his bones. Like his hind brain was lighting up on all cylinders, signaling danger. It felt like the desire to flee. 

But he was in Scott's room, where he was safe. Derek himself was safe, Stiles knew that. Derek would never hurt him. He had even stopped shoving Stiles against walls years ago. 

“How was your day?” Derek asked, and Stiles frowned. The words, while Derek's, did not really sound that way, like a discordant tone in a song. It twanged in Stiles' head, making him alert when he wanted to sink into this moment. 

“Getting weirder by the minute,” he said. 

“It's alright,” Derek said, chuckling softly. “I understand. You're safe here with me now.” 

“Am I, though?” Stiles blurted, the feeling frothing in his stomach, threatening to boil over. 

Derek laughed at that. He smiled at Stiles, and then — yeah, there went his shirt. 

“What is it with you talking off your shirt?” Stiles demanded. His body felt hot, yearning to touch. He wanted nothing more than to run his hands over that beautiful sinew. 

“You don't like it?” Derek asked playfully, extending his arms as if to show off his goods. He smiled, all straight, even, perfect teeth. “Because I'm pretty sure you do.” 

“That is _none_ of your business,” Stiles said, defensive. But damn, it was true. He liked it a lot. He wanted to _bite._

_“Au contraire, mon amour,”_ Derek said, and Stiles stared at him in alarm as Derek cupped his cheek. 

Derek hated using French. 

“French, really?” Stiles stammered, feeling less safe by the second. “Let's not be cliché here. You don't even like French.” He shoved off the hand, eyes narrowing as the molten feeling in his body lessened. “Stop that.” 

“Why?” Derek asked. He looked friendly and kind as he had since he opened Scott's front door. But the way his hand tightened on Stiles' felt like Stiles was stepping into a bear trap. And the way Derek leaned ever closer, body eclipsing the light from the window, felt sinister and creepy. The sirens in Stiles' head were rigning with a vengeance. “Don't you like me?” Derek asked. 

Biting down on his tongue, Stiles refused to answer. Because no matter what came out of his mouth, he knew his heart would betray him. 

Standing, he pushed away from Derek. 

“I'm leaving,” he bit out, and he was running again. 

* * *

The school was open. Not just unlocked, but the doors were all open wide, as if inviting those outside in. So Stiles went, skulking into the empty school and searching out the one place with no windows. 

Collapsing onto the bench in the school locker room, Stiles let out a tired sigh. He felt so confused. One big part of him wanted Derek's advances, even as he feared them. Another, smaller part of him, felt wrong and disgusted. Not by Derek, but by himself. 

Because it was not Derek. At least, not the grumpy sourwolf who downplayed his feelings that Stiles had come to know. It was _other_ Dereks. Versions of him that Stiles knew were more appealing than the original. And that was what gave him pause. Because the thing about Derek was having to work for him. It was why Stiles liked him. Derek Hale did not twist easily. He did not give affection or smiles freely. He made you prove yourself. If you were not up to par, he did not give you the time of day. 

He was a rigid piece of stone, unyielding and strong. 

And Stiles had been working on Derek since day one. Not consciously back then, but after several saving moments, Stiles had actively started chipping away at Derek. Little by little, he had chiseled at Derek's hard shell, working to learn him, to know him. 

To love him. 

And the payoff was worth it. Derek relaxed around him. He did not walk around like everything was out to get him anymore, at least not with Stiles. With Stiles, he was calmer. Still grumpy, still sarcastic, still playing things close to the chest. But Derek was not quick to chase him away. He let Stiles get close, get playful. And while he did not return it, he did not growl at him. He rolled his eyes instead. Fondly, if Stiles was reaching. And when Stiles spoke, Derek did not immediately brush him off like before. He _listened._ He spoke to Stiles like a person, weighed his words, and was honest. 

It was all the small things that Stiles appreciated. That he had worked tirelessly for. That Derek had given him because Stiles had _earned_ them. 

So when confronted by Derek, who gave it all away, it was a tempting offer. And Stiles wanted it, he really did. He ached to take. But he had not earned any of it. It felt wrong, his gut squirming with discomfort. Because a small part of him liked that Derek was so difficult to get to. He liked proving himself worthy of Derek's trust, his affection, his kindness, his worry. 

His vulnerability. 

“Stiles.” 

Jerked from his thoughts, Stiles looked around to see Derek standing at the end of the lockers. He stood, looking defeated, expression pained, and clothes close to ragged. 

Thankfully, Stiles could not see any blood. 

“Please,” Derek whispered. “Stiles, please.” 

Standing, Stiles felt his heart leap into his throat at the sound of Derek's wrecked voice. He bit his bottom lip, nervous as Derek moved closer. He had only ever seen Derek look this bad once before. It had been the day Derek nearly killed Boyd. He had looked so small, kneeling on the ground, expression devastated. 

It made Stiles ache. A lump formed in his throat as worry stung him in his core. 

“Please,” Derek said, staggering over. He gripped Stiles' shoulders and looked pleadingly at him. “I need…” Derek said, words trailing away. “Please, Stiles.” 

And Stiles' heart went out to Derek. He gripped Derek's elbows, supporting him, and looked him in the eye. 

“What do you need?” He said, the words trembling as they fell from his lips. “Tell me what you need, Derek.” 

Derek fell onto him, embracing him desperately, and Stiles hugged him back. Derek was hotter than usual, skin scorching him. But Stiles clung on, equally desperate. 

“You,” Derek breathed. “I need you.” 

He leaned in, eyes tumultuous and mouth parted. But something in Stiles' gut wrenched, and he flinched away before Derek could make contact. Derek's lips fell to his cheek instead, and Derek breathed against him, a small broken sound escaping him. 

“Why do you keep rejecting me?” Derek asked him, sorrow straining his words. “Am I not good enough?” 

“Derek,” Stiles said lowly, gut clenching harshly. He let go and moved back , stepping out of Derek's personal space. “Don't say that. That's not it.” 

“Then why?” Derek asked, the words sounding so small and lost. “What did I do wrong? Why am I not good enough for you?” 

“Derek, you're more than good enough, that's not it,” Stiles said. His stomach twisted so hard it hurt. He winced. “I just need to know what's wrong first. Why are you like this? What happened?” 

“Stiles,” Derek said, and there was a loud ripping sound as Derek grabbed the front of his shirt and straight up pulled it off his torso, threads bursting at the seams. “Look at me,” he said. 

Stiles did. 

Derek looked perfect as always, not a blemish in sight, perfectly symmetrical, eerily beautiful. Stiles bit his lip, struggling against himself. He yearned to reach out, to touch, to _kiss._

“Don't you want me?” Derek asked him, eyes so green and intoxicating. The other colors were missing. “Aren't I exactly what you dreamed of?” 

And, yeah, he was. He really was. 

“Stop talking like that!” Stiles snapped. Because something within him was screaming that this was weird. This was wrong. His gut was telling him and he had to listen to it, even if he wanted to sink his fingers into Derek's hair and kiss him like his life depended on it. It was a bone-deep ache. A want that felt like it was burning him from the inside out. “This isn't you, Derek!” 

“Of course it's me,” Derek said, he grabbed Stiles' bicep and pulled him closer, tucking him against his warm, perfect body. Stiles shuddered, bracing a hand against one of Derek's finely-sculpted pecs. “Feel me,” Derek encouraged. “I'm real.” 

But a surge of anger, like a _roar_ in his ears, burst out of Stiles, shattering his desire to dust, and he ripped away, glaring. 

“No, you're not Derek!” Stiles shouted. He had a single moment to take in the blank, predatory expression on Derek's face before everything went black. 

* * *

“Wake up!” Someone was growling. “Wake up, you idiot!” 

His body was dragging across something hard, loose particles biting into his back and legs. A piercing agony tore through Stiles' head as he was shaken roughly. And he groaned as he weakly batted at the rude asshole treating him like a rag doll. 

“Stop,” he muttered. “Human. Fragile. Fucker.” 

He was instantly dropped, and Stiles felt his head give an indignant pounding in protest. 

“Finally!” Said the voice that Stiles finally recognized to be _Derek's._

Opening his eyes, Stiles flailed wildly, trying to shove away from Derek. He registered Derek then, looking deadpan as Stiles scrambled back. He raised a single eyebrow when Stiles hit a wall and stopped. Looking around, Stiles noticed he was in the old warehouse with the abandoned trains. It was the place Derek had moved their “meetings” to. And by “meetings” Stiles meant training, though, if one could really call being thrown around like a sandbag by Alpha Derek Hale “training”, well, the jury was still out on that. 

Sounds of a struggle caught his attention, and Stiles' gaze alighted on five werewolves surrounding an angry-looking … Stiles was not quite sure what that was. It looked humanoid, a lot like Derek actually, but more pinched, nose sharp, cheekbones jagged, skin a parchment yellow, though it had a weird tail that ended in a spade, and oh, yeah, those were horns curling out of its forehead. 

“That's a demon,” Stiles said, incredulous. 

“No shit, Sherlock,” Derek barked at him, and Stiles looked at him, eyes wide. 

Derek was wearing a black t-shirt, tight in the shoulders and loose around his middle. His jeans had seen better days, and his feet were covered by scuffed, but sturdy, black boots. 

“Are you just going to sit there?” Derek growled at him. “Run!” 

“You're not gonna take your shirt off?” Stiles asked, an apprehensive look in his eye. 

“What?” Derek demanded, confusion making him even grumpier as the battle several feet away raged on. “Would that make you move any faster?” At Stiles' silence, Derek flashed his red eyes and growled. “No, I'm not taking my shirt off!” 

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles breathed. 

Derek's expression pinched in a way that said he wanted to press the matter, but was also debating if the potential crack to his sanity would be worth it. But before he could decide, Scott came flying overhead to hit the concrete beside Derek. 

Stiles gasped, reaching for his best friend. 

“Dammit,” Derek growled, and he was rushing forth, grabbing Stiles around the middle and hauling him up onto his shoulder as Stiles let out a squeal of indignation. Then Derek was running, and Stiles watched as the demon let out a piercing shriek, shoving through the remaining betas to give chase. 

“Oh, my god, go faster!” Stiles shouted, smacking at Derek's back as the thing gained on them. 

“Shut _up,”_ Derek snapped as if to say “your comment is unappreciated at this moment, please try again later”. Derek was running full pelt out of the warehouse and towards the woods, Stiles jostling on his shoulder with his head pounding in pain. Stiles tried his best to steady himself as he looked behind them, gasping as the demon leapt closer. 

“Derek, oh, my god, if you let this thing eat me, I'm going to kill you. Move faster!” 

“What if I just left you here?” Derek growled, but contrary to his words, he held Stiles even tighter and put on a burst of speed. The demon, however, kept pace. 

“God, what is that?” Stiles breathed as he tried to recall what the hell had happened to lead to this moment. 

He recalled heading over to the warehouse because Derek had sent him a text about an emergency pack meeting. But once he had gotten there — 

Stiles did not remember anything past getting inside the warehouse. 

“Duck!” 

Stiles dropped down onto Derek's back as they darted under a fallen tree. The demon simply leapt over it, intent on their tail. It moved on all fours, its legs bending forwards to scuttle towards them like a lizard and sometimes rising up to gallop like a horse. 

Stiles shuddered. 

“Incubus!” Derek provided, weaving through trees and leaping over a stream. 

Struck by memories, Stiles stiffened on Derek's shoulder as the image of Derek's torso, oil-slick and gleaming in the sun, approached him. It hit him what that weird dream had been. The incubus had gotten to him. And it had taken on Derek's form to do it. Shame, like he had never known filled Stiles, and he curled upon Derek's shoulder like a withering plant, wanting nothing more than to be far, _far_ away from him. 

“What?” Derek growled, and Stiles remained silent. “I'm a little busy here,” Derek said then, and that was when Stiles realized Derek was not talking to him. He remained still and as close to Derek's body as he could, not wanting to distract or overbalance him. But Derek seemed to handle it fine, carrying him and talking on the phone while running like it was just another Saturday afternoon. 

Stiles hated that it kind of was just another Saturday afternoon. 

“Fine!” Derek snapped, and he abruptly turned direction, skidding on the mulch of the forest floor before taking off with purpose, shoving the phone into his pocket as he went. “Just hang on,” Derek said to a silent Stiles as the noise of crashing underbrush sounded behind them. “Lydia has a plan.” He kept running, breaths puffing out of him. 

The incubus gave chase behind them, unfaltering. 

It was odd that it had not caught up yet. Its stamina seemed unaffected by the long-distance running. It neither caught up nor lagged behind, almost like it was waiting for them to tire. A full-body shudder rushed through Stiles at the thought of that happening. He sent the demon a fearful look, watching as it kept pace, beady black eyes focused on him. And the more he looked, the stranger he felt. His limbs felt looser, his heart rate slowing. He felt strangely floaty. 

“Der'k,” Stiles slurred. “I think … 's doin' s'methin' t'me.” He dropped his head, feeling dizzy, his sense of direction floundering. He felt consumed by vertigo, his head tumbling in eternal circles, and he could not tell where the ground was anymore. “Der'k.” 

“Don't look at it!” Derek shouted, jostling Stiles. But Stiles could not tell where Derek's voice was coming from. His head lolled and dropped, and he heard Derek inhale sharply. 

A loud roar exploded in Stiles' ears, and he jerked as the world righted itself, sharpening into focus. The strange floaty feeling vanished, and Stiles gasped as he blinked away the fog in his head. 

“Don't look at it!” Derek repeated. “Close your eyes!” 

So, curling around the back of Derek's shoulders, Stiles hid his face in Derek's shoulder blades, hands clenching into the back of his shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut tight as Derek emerged from the trees. He heard as Derek pounded across the pavement and then the echo of his steps in a cavernous room. 

The next thing Stiles knew, Derek was dropping him onto cement, and Stiles' eyes flew open to see himself in a white circle. Next to him was Lydia Martin, her expression fierce as she held an open book down in her lap. Outside of the circle, they were surrounded by the betas, Derek the furthest, back turned towards him. 

“Is that salt?” He asked. 

There was another shriek, and Stiles turned to see the demon burst into the warehouse where they had returned. It seeked Stiles out and found him like he had a homing beacon. And with a wide baring of its serrated teeth, it charged. 

Stiles nearly broke the salt line. 

Lydia's arms clamped around him, holding him still as Stiles tried to jerk away. 

“Stay still!” She hissed, and Stiles cringed as the demon raced towards him. That familiar floaty feeling creeping in on the edges of his consciousness. 

But with a roar, Derek met the demon head on, and the feeling vanished. 

Stiles shut his eyes. 

_“Don't look at it!”_ Derek had said. 

Sometimes, Derek was one smart cookie. So Stiles did not look, even as Lydia intertwined her fingers through his, gripping his hand firmly as she began to speak in a low chant. He did not look even as he heard Erica yelp and Isaac cry out in pain. He did not look even as he felt his strength beginning to drain, a sudden exhaustion overtaking him the more Lydia chanted. His head was pounding. 

He almost looked when Derek's roar cut off abruptly. 

Panic consumed him, and he turned his head, ready to open his eyes, when Derek cursed, followed by a loud crunch of metal. 

Stiles did not look. 

But then the roaring, the crashing, and the shrieking came to a stop, and Lydia gasped for breath. The warehouse around him was silent, and Stiles kept his eyes squeezed shut. Nothing had gotten to him yet. 

“Ha,” Scott laughed, sounding relieved, followed closely by Erica's nervous giggle. 

“I can't believe that worked,” Isaac said, sounding bemused. 

But still, Stiles did not look. 

“Can we never do that again?” Boyd said tiredly. 

“Well, as long as Stilinski gives up being a virgin, I think we'll be solid,” came Jackson's sarcastic bite. 

“Hey, fuck you,” Stiles said blindly, offended. “Virginity is a construct.” 

“Well, according to Lydia, your construct almost got you killed,” Jackson bit back. “And I'll fucking do it if it means we don't have to fight another of those fucking things.” Jackson threatened, and Stiles shuddered. Because Jackson and he were a match made in hell. “Why are your eyes closed?” 

“You can open your eyes, you know,” Lydia said, sounding exhausted but amused. 

“C'mon, man, you can look,” Scott coaxed. But Stiles refused with a shake of his head. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, “it's fine now.” 

And Stiles opened his eyes. 

Blinking, he took in his surroundings. There was no sign of the demon anywhere, just a scorch mark on the floor that Stiles hoped had been the demon. He pointed at it. 

“Yeah, that was the demon,” Boyd said with a grumble. 

The betas looked a little worse for wear, and the most injured seemed to be Erica, who was holding her stomach tightly. At his concerned look, she smiled, however. 

“I'll be fine,” she said. “Still healing.” He looked to Lydia who was swaying slightly beside him, hair frazzled. He helpfully tucked a wayward strand behind her ear, and she grimaced at him. He could relate. He felt the same. 

“God, why am I so tired?” He said. He rubbed at his temples. His head was still throbbing behind his eyes, like an enormous drum was being beat inside his skull. 

“I channeled your magic,” Lydia said, sighing. “Borrowed it, technically. You'll get it back eventually.” 

“My what now?” Stiles coughed, staring at her. He was met with Lydia's unimpressed stare. 

“Really,” she said, and promptly rolled her eyes. She gestured to Jackson. “You, carry me.” 

“Yes, your highness,” Jackson snarked, but he immediately did as bid. He walked over and pulled Lydia into his arms, cradling her. She cuddled up to him, sighing again. 

“Damn right,” Lydia mumbled into his collarbone. 

Stiles looked to Scott next who looked okay for the most part, though he had a limp when he shuffled closer. 

“You okay?” Scott asked, an anxiousness in his voice. 

Stiles blinked at him. God, his head hurt. 

“Just tired,” Stiles answered. “And my head hurts. Can someone tell me what exactly happened?” He looked around at each of them, continually rubbing at his temples in hopes that his headache would wane. “I remember getting a text from Derek, but I don't remember anything past walking in.” 

Speaking of, his eyes finally found Derek himself. 

And yeah, this was the Derek Hale Stiles recognized. Shirtless through violence. There was blood on his torso and long gashes that were still healing. But he stood tall, feet sure, wearing the savagery like a king's mantle. It was kind of awing. Not that Stiles would ever tell him. That way lay too close to the truth. And Stiles did anything but tell the _that_ truth. He was determined that _that_ truth die with him. 

Derek moved closer then, approaching him, but stopped when Stiles cringed away. He looked perplexed then, before he glanced at the scorch mark. Then something dark descended over his face, an understanding that hunched his shoulders and made him step back again. 

_Fuck,_ Stiles thought as Derek raised his eyes to him. He looked _hurt._ Not obviously, but Stiles recognized the furrowing of the brows, the dropping of the gaze, the hunch of his posture. It was all so minute, he doubted anyone else could see it. 

“I sent a text,” Derek said, remaining where he stood, “because we had a demon running loose. I smelled it when I checked the perimeter. I went out to meet Boyd and Isaac who got here first, and we were attacked. When everyone else arrived, the demon shot off into the woods.” He grimaced. “We followed, but it was leading us in circles, then doubled back here before anyone noticed. 

“That's when it got to you,” Derek finished, his expression turning stormy and furious like a building hurricane. 

“Ugh,” Isaac voiced. “And that's an image I'll never get out of my brain.” 

“Yeah, it was pretty disturbing,” Jackson said agreeably, unconsciously beginning to slowly rock Lydia in his arms. She looked up at him with amusement, but he did not notice. “I never wanted to see Stilinski passed out with Derek molesting him.” 

“I'm sorry, _what?”_ Stiles cried, hands immediately searching his body as if he could tell where he had been touched. His head spiked with pain at that, and he winced. “What the hell?” 

“It wasn't Derek and it didn't molest you!” Scott hastily added, shooting Jackson a sour look. “Jackson's just exaggerating.” 

“It had its tongue in Stilinski's ear!” Jackson protested loudly. 

Stiles shuddered as an awful, violated feeling overcame him. Like a man possessed, he rubbed at his ears furiously as though he could get rid of whatever lingered there with his touch. 

“It did not!” Scott shouted angrily. “Shut up, Jackson! It was just whispering!” 

Stiles stopped, looking between them with confusion. He closed his eyes because god, his head _hurt._

“Same difference!” Jackson snorted. 

But Stiles had had enough. All of this shouting was only aggravating his migraine. Opening his eyes, he stood. He moved out of the circle of what he was sure was salt and waved his hand at Isaac who moved to help him. Heading for the door, he stopped as Derek stepped into his path, looking wary. 

“Stiles —” 

“Dude, get away from me,” Stiles said, holding up his hands. God he did not want Derek touching him right then. He felt like throwing up. If Derek touched him, he was sure he would follow through. “I can't fucking — I wanna go home. _Now._ So get out of my way.” 

Derek frowned, stepping back and out of Stiles' path. His expression was closed, eyebrows and mouth set in his permanent frown. He continued looking at Stiles, searching him. For what, Stiles did not know, but he needed to go home and shower right the fuck now. 

And maybe swallow an entire bottle of pain medication. 

“I'll come with you,” Scott said, and Stiles nodded vaguely as he started up the stairs. When he emerged from the subterranean warehouse, he saw it was late afternoon, the sun low in the sky. His head throbbed at the light and he grimaced as he pushed on. He did not stop until he had reached his Jeep. He opened the door and slammed himself inside, gripping the steering wheel and staring at it blankly. On the other side, Scott slowly climbed in. 

“Don't listen to Jackson,” Scott said, closing the door gently. “I swear it wasn't touching you. We got here and that thing had shape-shifted or something into Derek. You were unconscious and it was like, kneeling over you, but all it was doing was whispering into your ear. It wasn't…” He trailed off, pursing his lips. “It didn't get the chance to do anything.” 

“Okay,” Stiles said, his voice small. He believed Scott. Scott was his best friend and he would not lie to Stiles. But Stiles remembered the way that Derek had come onto him, touching him and caressing him. Trying to get Stiles to give in. But it had not been him at all. 

Stiles felt dirty, tainted. 

“You okay?” He asked. 

“Just sore,” Scott said quietly. “I'll heal.” 

“So apparently I have magic,” Stiles said, for the sake of not thinking of what happened to him. 

“Yeah, I didn't even know about that,” Scott said. But he did not say anything else, letting the silence linger. And the more it did, the more Stiles wanted to scream just to fill it. 

Biting hard on the inside of his cheek, he started the Jeep and drove. 

* * *

The betas were on his heels as Derek stormed into the warehouse. He was furious. The fucking demon had given them all the runaround, made them chase it like it was a fucking game. He was going to rip the asshole apart with his goddamn teeth if it was the last thing he did. He came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, eyes growing wide and inhaling sharply. 

Stiles was on the floor, and Derek was on top of him. He was whispering into Stiles' ear, so low that the betas would have a hard time making out the words. 

But not Derek. 

He could hear everything perfectly. 

_“Don't you want me?”_ His lookalike was whispering. There was a horrid grin on his lips and his hands were running down the length of Stiles' chest, teasing over the band of his jeans, but not touching them. Almost like it was waiting. 

Derek's heart stuttered in his chest as the disbelief crashed into him. He watched with a sort of surreal detachment as his image caressed Stiles' cheek, still whispering lowly into his ear. 

_“Aren't I exactly what you dreamed of?”_

_What am I doing?_ Derek thought, aghast. _He's unconscious! Get off him!_

_“Of course it's me,”_ the other Derek said, tenderly touching Stiles' cheek. _“Feel me,”_ he said. _“I'm real.”_

It was only when Scott let out a roar, that Derek realized what he was seeing was _actually happening._ There was something that looked like him hovering over Stiles' unconscious body, about to take advantage of him. And a rage like Derek had never known filled him to the brim. He summoned his beta shift, pushing out his claws and dropping fangs before releasing his fury into the air in a howling roar. 

* * *

“I think it wanted you to do something,” Scott said as Stiles emerged from the bath two hours later. He had scrubbed and scrubbed until he was pink and raw and the water had gone cold, but no matter what the temperature of the water, Stiles still felt wrong. He had given up once the water turned tepid halfway through and switched to cold, as it was better for his headache. He was sure his ears had never been so clean. He spared Scott a glance before going to his bed, curling up on it. Stiles was exhausted, and his head was still throbbing with a migraine that would not quit, despite the medication he had taken. It had not even made a dent. 

He knew what the demon had wanted. It had wanted Stiles to give in, to succumb. Not to consent. Because coercion was not consent. And it had not wanted Stiles' consent. It had just wanted Stiles to stop resisting. 

Clenching his jaw tight, Stiles turned to face the wall. 

“We stopped it,” Scott said softly. “We didn't let it do anything to you. You're safe now.” 

Stiles flinched at the phrase, hearing Demon Derek's voice like a whisper in his ear. He shuddered against his sheets, rubbing his ear on his pillow, and wondered if he would ever feel safe again. 

“Scott,” Stiles said lowly. “I kinda just wanna take a nap, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Scott said. “Want me to stay?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed. “Stay.” 

* * *

When Stiles woke up, it was to a clatter at the window. He blinked drowsily, his memories returning, and he tensed. He wished they had not. Ignoring the images flashing in his mind, he focused on the wall. The room had darkened significantly while he had slept. There was still a slight throbbing in his head, but not as fierce as before. Still, he closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back asleep. 

“I said he's asleep!” Scott hissed, and Stiles opened his eyes again, rolling them. “He's had a rough day, man. Just go. I'm watching over him.” 

“I can watch over him,” said someone that was not Scott. “Go home, Scott. Your mom's probably worried.” 

“I already told her I was here,” Scott rebutted. “And I'm not just going to leave without saying anything. I said I would stay!” 

“Neither of you are as quiet as you think you are,” Stiles mumbled, and the argument immediately ceased. 

“I told you you'd wake him up!” Scott accused, still “whispering”. 

A sigh was Scott's answer. 

“Derek, why are you here?” Stiles called. Because of course it was Derek. No one else climbed in through his window. The betas knew how to use a door, unlike Derek, who had apparently been raised by _wolves._ Stiles snorted to himself. 

He was hilarious. 

But Derek said nothing in reply. Assuming he had left, Stiles grimaced. Sighing, he settled back in, ready to sleep. 

“Do you _mind?”_ Derek said pointedly. 

“No one's stopping you,” Scott retorted. 

Hhhh “Children,” Stiles said, opening his eyes and finally turning over to his other side. Night had fallen. The sky beyond the window was dark. But then he spotted Derek, literally _hanging_ onto the window ledge, Scott blocking his way inside with his arms crossed. 

Shooting up on his arms, Stiles gaped. 

“Oh, my god, get inside,” Stiles hissed, pushing himself into sitting up. “My neighbors are going to call the cops — did you forget that my dad _is_ the cops!” 

Derek gave Scott a smug look then, and Scott glared as he moved aside. Derek climbed in, like a graceful monkey, and settled silently onto his feet. He was clean of dust and blood, his clothes fresh and his hair recently washed. Nothing fit him inappropriately, except his pants. And one day, Stiles was going to have a talk with Derek about the possibility of bursting seams. Currently, however, Stiles said nothing. Brushing off his leather jacket, because apparently going anywhere without it was a crime, Derek turned to look at Stiles, frowning. 

He did not say anything. 

Stiles waited, lifting his eyebrows at him. He was not looking directly at Derek, but at his ear. It was close enough and it settled the nausea that wanted to erupt in Stiles' stomach. What happened with the demon felt sort of like a dream. But unlike dreams, they were not fading from his memory. They were stark and fresh, like they had just happened a second ago. He remembered the feel of Derek's hot skin, the lips on his cheek, his torso pressing deliciously against Stiles'. 

Breathing deep, Stiles felt nauseated. It had not been Derek, he knew that, but it had looked like him. All his perfect features had been replicated, and Stiles could still see them in his mind's eye. He could barely stand looking at Derek's ear. Letting his gaze drop, Stiles continued to wait, reaching up to rub at his temples. 

But when Derek continued to remain silent, he looked to Scott. But Scott looked as nonplussed as him. He shrugged at Stiles. 

“Scott,” Derek finally said. “Give us a minute.” It had almost sounded like a request. Stiles was almost proud. 

He watched Scott stiffen and curtailed the argument before it began by waving a hand. 

“It's okay, Scott,” Stiles said. “I need to talk to Derek anyway.” 

Scott nodded at him, deflating. He jerked his thumb at the door. 

“I'll be downstairs if you need me,” he said as he started to move towards it. 

“And don't listen in,” Derek said. 

Scott turned to give him a sneering glare before grabbing up Stiles' iPod on his desk. He waved it at Stiles before departing. 

Derek waited, staring at the door, undoubtedly following Scott's progress through the hall and down the stairs. He waited a few seconds more before he looked at Stiles who immediately felt it. 

Derek's gaze was like a brand on his skin, and Stiles felt uncomfortable as he shifted on the bed. He heard as Derek grabbed the desk chair, moving it to face Stiles' bed. Sitting himself upon it, Derek leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. 

“Are you alright?” Derek asked, and Stiles tried not to remember the concerned version of Derek that the demon had tried. It helped that Derek's iteration of concern was gruff and stiff like Stiles was used to. 

“Fine,” Stiles said, and Derek scoffed. 

The noise startled Stiles and he unwittingly met Derek's gaze. Derek looked disbelieving, his eyes narrowed on him. 

“Lie,” Derek said flatly, because he was an asshole who had no respect for the privacy of Stiles' unwitting bodily reactions. 

Grimacing, Stiles averted his gaze again. 

“A demon came after me,” Stiles said. “What do you expect?” 

“I expect you not to lie to me,” Derek rebutted, and Stiles frowned at the place where his legs crossed. He picked at a loose strand of his flannel pants. “Withhold, yes, but not lie.” 

“Fine, I _withhold,”_ Stiles said, sarcastic as ever. 

With a sigh, Derek rubbed at his face, the sound of his scratchy stubble loud in the room. 

“I don't know what it made you see,” Derek said. “I don't know what it did to you in your dreams, or … what it said.” 

And, whoa, but that hesitation sounded a lot like a lie. Eyebrows furrowing, Stiles looked up to stare at Derek's chin. 

“That's a lie,” he said, disbelieving. 

Derek's jaw tightened. 

“I heard the tail end of it,” Derek admitted, a low rumble of displeasure in his voice. “But I know that whatever I heard wasn't all of it.” 

Crossing his arms protectively over his chest, Stiles gulped dryly, recalling the words, the sick way they made him feel, the want they elicited. He shuddered, disgust spreading through him. 

God, but he felt awful. He _was_ awful. Stiles had no idea how he would ever look Derek in the eye again after that. Not only did looking at Derek remind him of the demon doing things to him, but it also reminded him of the fact that he had _wanted_ it. 

Stiles felt despicable. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, “talk to me.” 

“And say what?” Stiles breathed. “What am I supposed to say, Derek?” He snorted despite himself. “Besides 'I'm sorry', like it means anything to you.” He grit his teeth. “I am sorry. I didn't…” He trailed off, unable to find the words to tell him just how sorry he was that the demon had used Derek's image. How to reassure him that Stiles had not taken advantage. That he had refrained. 

Because Derek had to feel disgusted by the fact that the demon had looked like him. And Stiles was not even sure if it had been by chance, or if it had chosen Derek specifically because Stiles liked him. Stiles hoped that Derek thought it was by chance. 

“Stiles,” Derek said. “What are you talking about?” 

But Stiles did not have the words. When it most counted, nothing came to him. He could talk someone's ear off about the most mundane shit, but he could not find the words for a fucking apology. 

It ate at him like acid in his throat. 

“Stiles,” Derek repeated, his words sharp. “Look at me.” 

Shuddering, Stiles recalled that Demon Derek had requested the same thing. 

And Stiles could not. He would not. He knew if he looked at Derek, something terrible would happen. Likely, he would throw up. That _would_ be his luck. So Stiles shook his head in refusal. 

Standing from his chair, Derek moved over, crouching to get into Stiles' line of sight. When he leaned, Stiles flinched, but Derek did not touch him. Relief spread through him at that. Yet when Derek ducked, Stiles closed his eyes. It was then that Stiles noticed Derek's scent. He brought with him the smell of the forest, of pine, fresh air and damp earth. Stiles could even smell a hint of body wash. 

And it struck Stiles then, that the demon had had no scent. In his dream, hallucination — whatever it was — there had been no scent. 

“Stiles,” Derek said. “Look at me.” 

“I can't,” Stiles said. 

“You can,” Derek said firmly. “So look at me. It's not hard. All you have to do is open your eyes.” 

Breathing shallowly, Stiles took in more of Derek's comforting smell. And despite his brain screaming “no” at him, Stiles peered through his lids, his entire body tense. Derek was before him, expression calm and focused. He was not angry, nor disgusted. It was just Derek, the real one. His thick eyebrows were a little uneven, a little patchy, his nose a little bulby at the end. There were a few hairs he had missed with his shave above the line of his scruff. On the right side of his face, there was a spot on his chin that was barer than the other as if the hair did not grow as lushly there. 

His face was not perfectly symmetrical. Close, but one eye closed little more than the other, and the scruff was a little off. His face even veered a little to the side. 

Stiles stilled and his eyes shot open. 

“Take off your shirt.” 

Surprised, Derek's mouth parted slightly, revealing the edges of his two front teeth. His bunny teeth. Teeth that were not perfectly even. 

“Your shirt,” Stiles repeated, “take it off.” And then he was a flurry of motion, pushing onto his knees and grabbing Derek's arm. He pulled him into standing and Derek went with it, far too taken aback to stop him. Stiles shoved one sleeve off his shoulder, tugging. “Do it,” he said. Then he caught himself, wincing when he noticed Derek looked discomfited by the demand. 

“Please,” Stiles added softly. “I just need to check something, okay?” He moved back onto his heels, holding his hands up peaceably. “I won't touch you.” 

Derek nodded at him, but Stiles could see the uncertain look on his face as he shifted his shoulders. The jacket slid off, and Derek gently placed it on the bed, half over Stiles' pillow. He hesitated before he finally reached for his hem. In a weirdly jerky movement, a far cry from the fluidity Derek possessed at every given moment, Derek pulled off the shirt, running a nervous hand through his damp hair as he dropped his arm to hold it at his side. His shoulders hunched slightly, and Stiles could see he felt awkward. 

“It's okay,” Stiles reassured him. “I just need to check.” He waited for Derek's nod before he dropped his eyes to Derek's shoulders. 

The wounds were gone. All the remnants of the battle with the demon had healed over, but Stiles pushed the thought aside, examining the musculature. It was there alright, sinewy and beautiful as ever. But contrary to the Derek the demon had depicted, the muscles were less defined, smaller even. Derek was a big man, but his muscles were not as pumped as the demon had sported. 

Moving his gaze lower, Stiles noticed one of his pecs was lower than the other. There was also some chest hair, something the demon had not had. And his abs, they were not chiseled and cut. They were impressive, yes, but even Derek had the tiniest bit of flab there, and the lines were not mirror images of each other. They deviated, as if some of Derek's muscles had worked harder than others. 

Closing his eyes, Stiles recalled the Derek the demon had created. The image was so _different._ Like a flawless, hairless mannequin, all imperfections airbrushed away. Imperfections that _his_ Derek had. 

Opening his eyes, Stiles no longer saw the demon. He wondered how they had compared at all when the demon had looked like a runway model straight off a magazine. And his Derek, well, shit, he was just a man. A hot one, sure, but still a man with flaws like everyone else. And more hirsute to boot. 

Stiles smiled at the dark hair dusting Derek's shoulders. 

“You have hair on your shoulders,” he said, relief palpable in his voice. 

Derek said nothing, merely watching him carefully. The confused expression he had worn previously had faded. 

Covering his face with his hands, Stiles took a deep breath. Rubbing at his face, he dropped his hands and finally looked Derek in the eyes. Eyes that were so different, filled with color. He could see the flecks of blue, brown, and yellow that lingered within, forming an opalescent green that Stiles could look into for eternity. Fuck, it was far more beautiful than the eerie pure green the demon had worn. 

“He doesn't look like you at all,” Stiles said. “I was … I thought I wouldn't be able to look at you and not see him, but —” Shrugging his shoulders, Stiles laughed. “You're so different. Realer, I guess.” 

“He used my image in your dream,” Derek said slowly, “to get to you.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, grimacing. “I'm sorry.” He dropped his gaze, sighing. He moved back onto his heels, unsure when he had moved to get a closer look. “It was weird,” Stiles said. “He kept coming at me, trying to seduce me, but it's like a part of me knew it wasn't really you. It creeped me out. He made me feel unsafe.” Stiles scoffed. “It didn't make sense to me because I know you would never do that. Make me feel unsafe like that. You'd respect when I said no.” 

“He tried to seduce you by pretending to be me,” Derek said. There was a crease in his brow, growing deeper with every word. “And he tried to force you?” 

“Not really force,” Stiles said, grimacing. “More like coerce. He kept pushing me to give in. Consent wasn't really a thing he was after. Just wanted me to stop resisting.” 

“'Resisting',” Derek echoed hollowly. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “It was weird. Like, I know it wasn't you. It's so obvious now that it wasn't you. But while I was in there, in that dream or whatever, it's like things were foggy. I wasn't questioning things like I usually would have. Like what the hell would you be doing in Scott's house, or where was my dad, and how was the school just open and empty like that? Like I knew you were acting weird, but I didn't really question it that much. It was more like an alarm at the back of my head telling me something was wrong.” Stiles tilted his head, frowning. 

“Incubus demons have that effect,” Derek said, his tone inscrutable. “They dull your inhibitions and suppress your common sense with their magic. It's like a poison for your frontal lobe. It's supposed to make you highly suggestible and put you completely at their mercy.” 

Looking up at Derek, Stiles watched as he gulped thickly. 

“But you said you resisted it.” 

“I guess?” Stiles said. “I kept running away from him because it felt wrong.” 

“Because it was me,” Derek said, nodding. “You're lucky it was me and not Lydia.” 

Stiles frowned. 

“Wait, what?” He said, confused laughter leaving him. “What's so bad about Lydia?” 

Derek frowned back at him. 

“You're in love with her?” 

And wow, the sound of an actual question from Derek Hale. He was improving. 

“I am?” Stiles said, baffled. 

“Yes?” Derek said, equally stumped by Stiles' confusion. 

Snorting, Stiles laughed. 

“What?” Derek growled, prickling up like a harassed hedgehog as Stiles continued guffawing like a donkey with a vendetta against silence. 

“Dude,” Stiles said, unable to stop the laughter bubbling out of him. “I haven't been in love with Lydia since sophomore year! She broke the kanima curse with true love, remember? Kinda hard to be in love with someone who found their true love match.” He rolled his eyes. “God, Derek, I love you, but you're so fucking clueless sometimes. Jesus!” He chuckled his last, wiping at his eyes and sighing. “I'm not in love with Lydia,” he said, stressing each word for Derek's clarification. His amused smile did not leave his face. 

It was just too funny. Of course Derek would assume such a thing. He had never been the most emotionally available guy. It made sense he had not noticed that Stiles had moved on from Lydia to another, even more unattainable — if that was even possible — beautiful person. Derek Hale himself. 

Because apparently, Stiles had a type, and that type was gorgeous people who had massive issues. Not that anyone knew Lydia had issues. Apart from Jackson and Stiles anyway. 

But that was no one's business but Lydia's. Because Stiles had moved on and while he still cared about her, if she did not come to him with her issues, he could do nothing about them. 

Derek, however, in his own way, _had_ come to Stiles. And as such, Stiles, like the idiot that he was, got way too attached. 

He loved this man. He knew that. Stiles knew it like he knew his father took his coffee black because he usually did not have the energy to get out the milk and sugar. He knew it like he knew Scott hated milk duds and grape-flavored drinks. He knew it like he knew the sun would rise in the east every morning. 

But Derek did not know that. Because Stiles would die rather than tell him. That was not something he would put on Derek. Not when Derek had a hard enough time making friends. He would not throw his feelings on the guy. They were friends. Derek deserved friends. 

He deserved _everything._

Right now, however, Derek looked a little dumbstruck. His mouth was parted, the edges of his bunny teeth showing and his eyes wide and tragic-looking in that weird way that Derek did. It was vulnerable and private. Something he rarely showed others. 

Except Stiles. 

Against all odds, Stiles was the person Derek let in. Stiles was the person who got to see Derek's face when it looked tragically surprised. That little bit of awe at the edges said he could not believe what he had seen or heard, but that it had changed his life. 

The only other time Derek had shown him this expression was when Stiles had gifted him a framed photograph of his family that he had stolen from Peter to have blown up and the colors retouched. 

Peter was still pissed about that. 

“You okay?” Stiles said. 

“You don't even know what you said, do you?” Derek answered, expression turning incredulous. He huffed, looking exasperated and grudgingly fond. Looking around, he took a breath and met Stiles gaze, a hint of frustration in his eyes. He said, “God, you're an idiot.” 

“Hey,” Stiles said, frowning. “I just got assaulted by a demon. A little sympathy wouldn't kill you.” 

Derek's expression turned flat and unamused. 

“I would never treat what you went through lightly, Stiles,” Derek said, tone hard. And yeah, Derek would not. Stiles knew that. Because Stiles knew Derek had his own trauma. Derek had shared some of it with him, and he would never belittle someone else's experience. “Though that doesn't stop you from being an idiot.” 

“Touché,” Stiles said, and nodded. He settled back, moving his feet to dangle over the edge of his bed. “Thanks, though,” he said, sighing. The humor vanished from his face, though a warmth in his chest remained. “For coming over. Making sure I was alright. You're a good friend, Derek.” He gulped dryly, reaching up to rub nervously at his neck. “I really am sorry the demon took your form,” he said. “I hope that doesn't make things weird.” With his other hand, he gestured between them. 

“We're fine,” Derek said, a small smile on his lips, just for Stiles. Always just for Stiles. “At least you can look me in the eye now.” Slowly, he moved over, sitting on the bed beside him. His shirt was still in his hand, and he looked down at it, expression thoughtful. “Tonight isn't right,” Derek said softly, “especially given the traumatic experience you went through.” 

“Right for what?” Stiles asked, glancing at him in question. His stomach fluttered at the closeness. He could feel Derek's heat. It was different from the demon's. It was warm and comforting, a higher temperature than a human's, but not scorching hot like the demon's had been. 

Stiles wanted to melt right into it. But not tonight. Tonight he wanted to feel only his sheets touching him. 

There was a quirk to Derek's lips. Something that softened the hardness of his face and looked strangely relieved. He looked to Stiles, eyes roving over his features, and said, “But I do too. And I just want you to know that.” 

“What?” Stiles said, expression pinching in befuddlement. “Derek, you realize that doesn't make sense, right?” 

Rolling his eyes, Derek sighed, shaking his head. 

“I'll tell you tomorrow,” he said, and at the stubborn jut of Stiles' lip, he added, “Promise. But right now, you need to get some sleep.” 

“But you'll tell me tomorrow,” Stiles said, giving him the hairy eyeball, and Derek nodded. 

“I'll tell you tomorrow,” Derek affirmed. His expression did not change, remaining soft and a little more open than usual. 

“You realize this is going to keep me up all night, right?” Stiles said dubiously, a yawn abruptly leaving him. 

“You'll live,” Derek said, a smirk forming at the edge of his lips as Stiles tried to hide it. 

“Ugh,” Stiles said, throwing himself down onto his bed as dramatically as he could. But, obliging, he settled under the covers, yanking them over himself and playfully kicking Derek as he went. And, just to be an asshole, he made sure he was lying directly over Derek's jacket. That it smelled just like Derek was only a plus. “You're the worst friend.” Contrary to his previous words, however, Stiles was out as soon as he closed his eyes. 

“Tomorrow, I'll do you one better,” Derek promised.

**Author's Note:**

> When I showed my bae the first draft of this fic, she yelled at me bc Stiles said "I love you" & then immediately forgot, which prompted a whole lot of "Derek is never going to let Stiles live this down. It'll be his go-to story at Thanksgiving & Christmas dinners. The sheriff will laugh every time." & I just really needed y'all to have that image in your heads: Derek Hale at Christmas dinner, looking Stiles lovingly in the eyes and saying, "Hey, remember when you told me you loved me for the first time and then you _forgot?"_
> 
> To which, Stiles will fondly smash a bread roll in his face and say, "I'm leaving you, and I'm taking half of everything you own."
> 
> Happy Sterek is a good Sterek.
> 
> It's rough out there right now. Be careful, y'all. Cheers.
> 
> Twitter: [@nanadanonini](https://twitter.com/nanadanonini)  
> Tumblr: [@floreswrites](https://floreswrites.tumblr.com/)


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